The Things We Leave Behind
by Fire Dancer1
Summary: Breaking up is hard to do...Luka and Abby's thoughts after the events of The Longer You Stay. Part 2 is uploaded.
1. Luka

Author's Note: Pretend for a moment that season 8 never happened, aside from the first two episodes. This story picks up where The Longer You Stay leaves off, and no other season 8 episodes are relevant. This part is from Luka's POV, and if I get motivated and you want more, another part will be coming from Abby's POV. So let me know.  
  
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. The story is mine.  
  
Spoilers: TLYS (8.2)  
  
The Things We Leave Behind  
  
By Kate  
  
Part 1 – Luka  
  
I want so badly to call after her, to make her turn around, to tell her I was wrong. But somehow the words don't come, and I know that even if I did speak, she wouldn't believe me. I'm not sure if I would believe myself. So instead, I watch her as she walks away. She walks stiffly, the self- conscious gait of someone who knows another person is watching. But her shoulders are hunched, telltale of the hurt I've placed on them.  
  
I watch her until she's out of sight, around a corner. I don't realize I have been holding my breath until it whooshes out as if I have been punched in the solar plexus. And suddenly, I panic. What have I done? I raise my eyes to the heavens and speak to the God who has failed me in the past. "I didn't mean it. Bring her back…bring her back." The same prayer that had been left unanswered in the demolished apartment building worlds and years away. I watch a while longer to see if this prayer might be answered, but she does not come back around the corner. Time does not reverse so I can take it all back. I walk back to my apartment in a daze, my feet automatically taking the correct amount of steps, turning at the right times. I am surprised to find myself at my door, not really knowing how I got there.  
  
I open the door and am immediately accosted by a bombardment of emotions and memories. There is a pair of Abby's shoes by the door. A magazine she was reading last night is still open to an article about the nicotine patch. Draped over one of the boxes scattered throughout the living room is a sweater she always left in my room because she said I kept it too cold. I shiver, silently agreeing with her. It does seem uncommonly cold.  
  
I keep walking through the apartment, mentally cataloguing everything that is Abby's. Her toothbrush on the bathroom sink. A bottle of her shampoo in the shower. The beginnings of a grocery list scribbled in her handwriting on the margin of the newspaper – she needs bread and Diet Coke. She had only stayed here two nights, but her presence is everywhere.  
  
I step into the bedroom and feel as if I'm suffocating. I haven't gotten a bed yet, but that hadn't stopped us from christening the bedroom. There is a pile of blankets on the floor, and two pillows. I remember vividly the first night we stayed here, just two nights ago. Abby wanted to stay at her place and sleep in a real bed. But I told her that I had never been camping, and we might as well try out the floor. She scoffed. "This isn't real camping. You need a tent, you have to be outside. You have to have a campfire." I was insistent, though, and knew I had won when I kissed her and suggested we could still make our own fire. She spent the night snuggled in my arms as I pretended to point out different constellations on the dark ceiling. I think we were happy that night. I know we were.  
  
I close my eyes, trying to block out more memories of the nights we'd spent together. But I can't help torturing myself, and I kneel down on the floor and bury my head in her pillow. Her scent still lingers on the pillow, and I have a hard time believing it was just this morning that she was here. I breathe deeply, letting Abby permeate my senses as a lump forms in my throat. One of my favorite things about sleeping with Abby has always been resting my head close to her neck and breathing in her scent. I have never been able to pinpoint the exact source – it's a mixture of her shampoo, soap, perfume, detergent, and whatever else combines to form, for me, the most heady scent ever.  
  
Sitting back on my heels, I pound my fist into her pillow and again ask myself "what have I done?" The lump in my throat is getting thicker and thicker and I have to cough to dislodge it. I know that I can't stay here tonight, not with so much to remind me what is missing.  
  
And so I find myself back at the hotel I thought I had left for good, making some excuse to the manager about the utilities not being turned on yet in my new place. He gladly hands me the key to my old room and reminds me that I'm always welcome to stay.  
  
Soon, I find that it was foolish to think that I would be away from memories here. There is almost an entire year of memories here, memories of nights with Abby's body curled up next to mine, memories of kissing her awake in the morning, laughing, hugging, making love…Here are the stairs we used to trudge up after a long day at work. Here is the door she knocked at the very first night we spent together. Here is the table where she always dumped her purse and coat. Here is the bed, with the same quilt on top and the same nightstand next to it. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed.  
  
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face then look into the mirror. I don't look like a man who, just a few hours ago, hurt the woman he loved and told her to leave. No, I look as I always have. How hypocritical appearances are.  
  
I have no choice but to sleep on the bed that holds so many memories. As I lie down on my back and stare up at the ceiling, I remember another time in this bed. Snow was falling outside the window and Abby was resting her head on my chest. She mentioned, a bit puzzled, that I watched her while we were making love. My response was simple. "You're beautiful." I couldn't imagine not wanting to watch her. I believed it then, and I still believe it now. And that is why, as I close my eyes now, I can still see the haunted look on Abby's face when I told her tonight, "You're not that pretty; you're not that special." I try to close my eyes tighter, but I cannot stop the vision of her stunned, hurt face and her response. "I'm pretty enough in the dark, though, aren't I?" My own words back to haunt me.  
  
I stare up at the ceiling again, wishing I could go back to that winter morning with Abby in my arms. What went wrong? We were happy together, at least some times. I know we were. There was the weekend at Abby's apartment, one of those rare weekends that we both had off. It was cold and rainy outside and we made hot chocolate, wrapped ourselves in a wool blanket, and lay on her couch for hours, just listening to the rain and cuddling with each other. There was the time when Abby took me to the park and coached me for an entire afternoon on the finer points of softball, in preparation for the staff game. When I actually hit the ball in the game, when I finally made it around the bases, Abby met me at the dugout and kissed me in front of all our colleagues. There are countless other times, little moments, touches and looks in the hallway, stolen kisses in the supply room, that are running through my head right now. And I know we were happy. I know she was happy. Another thing I lied about tonight.  
  
So what went wrong? Was it a case of too many personal demons we were dealing with? Surely it wasn't because we work together. It really wasn't Carter, was it? The doctor in me wants to find the cause and fix it right away. But the rest of me feels hopeless, and I go to sleep, memories haunting even my dreams.  
  
END part 1 


	2. Abby

Author's Note: Abby's POV, same deal as with the first part. See part one for disclaimer and other relevant info.  
  
The Things We Leave Behind  
  
By Kate  
  
Part 2 – Abby  
  
I know he's watching me walk away. I can feel his eyes on me. I want to run back, to think of some snappy comeback and fling it at him. But my mind is blank, so I keep walking. I count my steps under my breath to drown out the memory of his words. 1, 2, 3, 4…You're not that pretty…9, 10, 11, 12…You're not that special…17, 18, 19, 20…Carter can have you…It isn't working. As I turn the corner, I breathe a sigh of relief that he can't see me anymore. And all of a sudden, my legs can't support me. I sink to the ground, almost in slow motion, and hug my knees to my chest. What just happened? I rock my body gently back and forth, feeling lightheaded. How could we have let it come to this?  
  
A car speeds by on the street, and I realize that I'm sitting on a sidewalk in Chicago, alone, in the dark. I stand up, stumbling towards my apartment. I can't feel safe anymore, not without Luka. The realization comes to me – he always makes me feel safe, protected. The thought is a bit embarrassing, even demeaning, but it's true. I think I have never been afraid in his presence.  
  
Until tonight. I unlock the door to my building and trudge up the stairs. Tonight I was afraid. Not afraid for my physical well-being, but afraid of what we were doing to each other. Afraid of what would come out of his mouth next. He has never had anything but gentle words for me, but tonight he let it all out. I press my lips together tightly, a well-practiced anti- crying technique, and open my door.  
  
As I walk into my apartment, I suddenly notice things that I never have paid attention to before. Luka's baseball cap is hanging on the hook next to the door. My heart squeezes as I remember him asking me if it makes him look American. I touch the cap lightly, not wanting to remember anything more about our time together. But remembering is inevitable, because reminders of him are all over the apartment. There is a Croatian book lying on the couch and I flip through it absently, my eyes stinging. I always tease him about his Croatian paraphernalia, saying that he could be reading steamy romance novels and no one would ever know.  
  
I keep walking through the apartment, my eyes somehow drawn to anything that will remind me of Luka. His coffee mug is on the kitchen table, with the remnants of that horrible Turkish coffee he loves so much in the bottom. I have to get out of the kitchen, with its reminders of Luka making dinner, the proud but shy expression on his face as he watches me enjoy whatever he's prepared. Or ordered, I remind myself, spotting the number of his favorite Thai carry-out posted on the refrigerator door.  
  
I go into the bathroom and find I can barely breathe. On the counter is a can of Luka's shaving cream. I close my eyes as more memories come, unbidden. In the mornings when Luka is shaving is one of my favorite times with him. He can try anything to wake me up – kissing me, tickling my feet, even blowing coffee steam into my face – but nothing gets me out of bed like hearing Luka get out of the shower and knowing he is going to start shaving. I love to walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his bare back. His body is always warm from the shower and I press myself against him, reveling in his nearness. He always reaches down with his left hand and strokes my arms as he shaves. What a way to wake up.  
  
I press my fists against my closed eyelids as I realize I am thinking about Luka and me in the present tense. Angrily, I grab the can of shaving cream and toss it on a high shelf so I don't have to look at it. I don't remember when Luka's life and my life melded into 'our' life. When we ceased to become 'you' and 'me' and started being 'us.' And tonight we – no, he – had to go and throw 'us' away. Taking my pajamas from the bathroom floor, I change into them despite the fact that I know I will never get to sleep tonight.  
  
As I brush my teeth, Luka's angry words still run through my mind, mocking me. "You're not that pretty; you're not that special," I whisper to myself. I look in the mirror and have to agree with him. I stare at my hollow, defeated-looking face and berate myself for believing him when he told me I was beautiful. I should have known the happiness I had with him would never last.  
  
Happiness. Yes, happiness. He said tonight that I never seem happy with him. I get into bed, sitting up because I don't think I can stand lying down with such a cold void beside me. I look to the ceiling, thinking about happiness. I was happy with Luka. I know I was. I remember the night before he went to Croatia for Christmas. He took me out to dinner, and the place had a live piano player. Despite my protests, Luka dragged me to an open spot in the middle of the restaurant and we held each other, swaying gently to the music. I remember thinking if being with him that night was the only Christmas present I received, I would be happy. Then there was the time last summer when we took a picnic lunch to the park and ended up spending the entire day there, just lying in each other's arms. There are so many other moments in my memory – glances shared at work, murmured conversations in the dark of night, kisses in the lounge – that convince me that I was happy, that we were happy. I was even happy to be going home to him tonight. But look where that got us.  
  
Suddenly, I can't stand being in this big bed alone. There is too much of Luka's presence still here. My emotions are threatening to spill over in the form of tears, and I get out of bed. I am angry now, angry that I let myself become comfortable with Luka and his gentle care, angry that Luka somehow needed to throw everything back in my face tonight. His things suddenly seem to clutter the apartment, suffocating me. I move methodically through the rooms, collecting everything that is his. His baseball cap, his book, his coffee mug, even the number for the Thai restaurant comes off the refrigerator. I end up in the bathroom, where I reach for the can of shaving cream. Seeing it again brings back such sweet memories that I almost falter. But I add the can to my pile and toss the entire bunch into the laundry hamper. I will deal with them later. But for now, out of sight, out of mind.  
  
For some reason, though, getting rid of Luka's things just makes the ache in my chest more pronounced. Despite my anger, despite my hurt, I long for him to be here right now, holding me. I climb back into bed and am met by the one thing I couldn't bring myself to toss with the others. Reaching out to touch Luka's pillow, I finally let a tear escape my eye. "Damn you, Luka," I whisper brokenly as I clasp the pillow to my chest. I don't know what went wrong with us. Or maybe I do, but don't want to admit it. But knowing or not knowing does not fill the void in my bed, in my heart.  
  
Burying my face into the soft fabric, I try to pretend I am holding him, instead of something that just smells of him. But a pillow is no substitute for a warm body, for a hand stroking my hair, for a gentle voice whispering in my ear. I let my tears soak into the pillow, praying for the escape of sleep.  
  
END part 2 


End file.
